


A Year On

by justonemore11



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mystrade Advent Calendar 2017, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 09:24:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12981069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justonemore11/pseuds/justonemore11
Summary: Greg reflects on the last year while on a stakeout.  Not-quite-a-cameo by Boris Johnson.Many thanks to Mottlemoth and Egmon73 for organizing the advent calendar.  I've been enjoying all of the submissions.





	A Year On

Greg Lestrade sat in his squad car, his eyes shifting back and forth, foot tapping. He pulled his coat around him, glad that he had added an extra jumper against the December chill. He shook his thermos. Still at least a cup of coffee. He decided to wait, since Donovan wasn’t coming to relieve him for an hour, and the length of time between toilet breaks was getting shorter as he got older.

He probably didn’t need more caffeine anyway. He couldn’t figure out why he was so jumpy. This had to be at least his 250th stakeout. What if he reached 300? Would he get a prize? A toaster oven, or maybe a nice espresso maker. The Yard, of course, would get a cheap version that broke down after a month. Still… 

He actually knew though, if he could bring himself to admit it, why he was so anxious. Mycroft had been nervous, so he was nervous. Even Sherlock was picking up on it. He had triple checked his and John’s location, something he never did, redolent as it was of self-doubt. But this year’s Sherlock was not last year’s. 

It was hard to believe it had been almost a year since The Incident. They all called it that in their heads, although they rarely voiced it. A year since Greg had complied with Sherlock’s request to make sure that his brother was looked after. A year since he had driven Mycroft back to London, listening in horror to his tale. A year since Mycroft then couldn’t bear to be inside, so they had huddled underneath blankets on Mycroft’s balcony, discussing their general agreement that life might be too complicated to even live and drinking the best whiskey Greg had ever had to wash down two packs of the worst cigarettes he had ever had. (You couldn’t be choosy at an M4 services area after midnight.) They had woken, freezing, at dawn, their mouths tasting like a pub floor, and not an upscale gastropub, but the kind of pub you went to in your twenties, with indestructible plastic pint glasses. If they had found themselves curled together under the blankets, well, that was obviously what the body did unconsciously when seeking warmth. They hadn’t needed to mention it again. 

They had spent the next year huddled together, though, albeit figuratively, not literally. The year had just been complete bollocks. The American election had just pulled off some kind of scab, and the UK was bleeding along with them. Mycroft was really worried about Brexit. He kept using phrases like “major dislocation” and “financial uncertainty”. Greg didn’t pretend to understand international finance, but he couldn’t see how this wasn’t like cutting off a limb.

Then so many disasters came, all so close to home. First at Parliament. Greg had had been rushed off his feet trying to mobilize two crews to take statements and secure half of the perimeter. That fact that someone he knew went there regularly hadn’t really registered with him consciously. He had let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding when he finally got a text from Mycroft, this time asking for a junior minister to be escorted out of the secure area, as his wife had just gone into labor. Greg had texted back.

\- I take it you don’t mean she’s just now switched over to Jeremy. 

Then came Borough Market, then the mosque. The horror of Grenfell Tower. The hate crimes had piled up. Greg remembered his dad’s description of what it was like having foreign parents in the 40’s and 50’s. Francois Lestrade had dropped the “o” from his name as soon as he was old enough to handle his own paperwork, and always introduced himself as Frank. Greg had spent most of his life trying to help people get along: his rebellious older brother and his prim younger sister; members of his team and the public; Sherlock and, well, everyone. These wounds in his London were like a knife to his own gut.

He and Mycroft had started meeting up a couple of times a month at a pub in Fulham. They weren’t likely to meet any of Greg’s mates from the Emergency Services Masters (read Wrinklies) Football Club or any of Mycroft’ s neighbors from “the posh bit” of Richmond. They wouldn’t bump into the grocer who had a stall near Greg’s tiny flat in Stockwell or the owner of the store in Kew where Mycroft ordered his tea. They wouldn’t accidentally encounter anyone from work. They were close enough, though, to all of these places that they could get there easily. The pub was also loud enough that, once Mycroft had gotten used to it, he could say 

“If Boris Johnson’s expensive and useless education (in CLASSICS, for God’s sake) has failed to instruct him in basic principles of arithmetic and economics, I cannot be held responsible for doing so in an hour a week.” He could tell Greg that he wasn’t sure anyone in the Cabinet, or the Shadow Cabinet, knew what they were doing. Greg could tell Mycroft that when he went home to Ilford to store his mum’s garden furniture for the winter, he avoided a number of his old mates, because “there’s just no civil reply you can make to the shite coming out of their mouths.” He could say the Yard was under pressure to double the number of armed officers, and Greg had no idea where he stood on that.

They had also started going to plays at the National, mostly Shakespeare, Wilde, Sheridan. If asked, Mycroft would have mumbled something about a preference for the classic plays, and Greg would have said “We did it in school, didn’t we?” or “The price is right.” They both knew it was comfort food, of a type they could agree on. There was just something about watching a play that had been performed for Queen Victoria and through World Wars, and that would be performed long after today’s troubles had passed away. Mycroft chose days in the middle of the play’s run, avoiding the opening and closing night parties his colleagues might attend. Greg had memorized the numbers of the seats under the balcony, near the door. 

They had slid into a kind of domestic relationship, with lots of domestic and little relationship. Greg knew things had come to a head when he had nearly left the Christmas sales with a pair of slippers for Mycroft. He had to draw a line there, though. Christ, the next step was side by side rooms in assisted living. Would Mycroft even go for that much? Greg was pretty sure that he had planned to just die quietly at his desk.

Greg shifted in his seat again. This was the problem with stakeouts. You had time to brood. He sighed. Better to brood over Mycroft than his own impending mortality. 

One of the reasons that Greg never said anything, never pushed, was that he worried about the fact that Mycroft had never again talked about the details of that night with his sister. Fair enough, but Greg couldn’t tell how traumatized Mycroft still was. Mycroft’s relationship with his parents was also still strained. They all visited Eurus, although the rest didn’t go as often as Sherlock. Mycroft and his parents had reached a kind of rapprochement, if he was to be believed. 

Greg had his doubts. He had met the Holmeses only a couple of times, both times while dropping off files at Baker St. They seemed to dote on Sherlock. He’d only seen them once with both of their sons. That was enough. Their interactions with Mycroft were either negative or perfunctory. To be frank, Mycroft’s dismissal of 90 percent of their concerns didn’t help. Greg had a mum too and he knew the drill. If you take five minutes to pretend to be interested in the church fete and Beryl’s operation, they think of you as a good son. It’s just what you do, and most people in their forties know this. Yet, Sherlock’s dismissiveness didn’t seem to bother his parents. So did the Holmeses create Mycroft, or vice versa?

Still, Mycroft had taken to going to tea with them after each trip to visit his sister. Maybe there was some kind of spring thaw ahead.

Greg knew what it was like to not be the favorite child. His mother doted on Paul, more now that he’d moved abroad and spent most of the year in India. Emily was not only the long awaited daughter, but the provider of the long awaited grandchildren. Still, his parents respected him. He had been Steady Greg, ready to walk his grandmother to church or pack the car when they went on holiday. His father had always called him a sensible lad, and his mum had cried the first time she saw him in his PC uniform. He had just been the child that had required the least from them.

The crack in his façade had been the end of his marriage. His mum had been awkwardly sympathetic.  
“You married young,” she had said, “Sure, Dad and I did and all, but everyone did back in those days. “ He wondered how much she knew. She had known Alan back when he was in secondary. She had just thought of him as Greg’s best mate, on the athletics team together and all. A modern parent would probably have asked, though. There would have been little to tell. A few fumblings in the basement, after drinking beer nicked from their dads while their parents were at card parties. They had both been underage and in denial, a different time. Neither of them wanted any trouble. Besides, Alan’s exam scores were good, really good for a boy from their neighborhood. He was headed to university, to a world where Greg couldn’t follow.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t loved or been attracted to his wife. He had. Apparently, though, he had a type: reedy, slightly awkward, and clever. He’d made a bit of an effort to get out there, after the divorce, but he hadn’t met anyone he’d really liked. So many accountants who spent the weekend moonlighting as football hooligans. Or maybe he had met someone he liked. Maybe his heart, or his unconscious mind, or his animal spirits, or whatever, had already decided for him.

Sally tapped softly on his window. He unlocked the door and slid over.

“No one has sighted any of the three suspects. No suspicious activity. I’m watching Exits 2 and 3.”

“I’m due to relieve Gregson at Exit 4 on the other side of the block in 20, so you have 15 minutes, if your prostate cooperates.”

“Oi, some respect for your elders.”

“By the way, who is on Exit 1?” she asked.

“One guess.”

“I won’t be relieving him,” she stated. “Let them come after my pension.”

Greg grinned, slid out of the car, and quietly walked around the corner to a bakery. He used the facilities and ordered a muffin. He texted Mycroft. 

\- All quiet on the Western Front.

\- Your conciseness is admirable, Greg. Sherlock has texted 8 times with ever greater demands.

\- What was the last one?

\- I don’t know. I asked John to confiscate his phone after he requested a pony. 

\- Where would he put it?

\- He doesn’t really want one. He pestered Mummy incessantly when he was 10, but backed off when she said yes. 

Mycroft could say what he liked about his parents, but he really had come by the strategy gene honestly.

\- How did you get John to agree?

\- The NHS Clinic at Swiss Cottage is about to become the only local clinic of its size in the UK with its own freestanding pathology lab. I may need to shop the Christmas sales for microscopes and centrifuges. Stay warm.

Tonight, they were guarding a meeting of several cabinet ministers from the UK and Germany. The second week of December was the best time for a professional meeting, Mycroft had said. The hotels had added staff, but were light on bookings until the 16th. In addition to the usual threats of protesters, extremists, and everyday yobs, there was a specific threat from a source in Russia, although the affiliations were unclear. MI6 had dossiers on three possibles. Mycroft had distributed photos, all of assassin cliches with shaved heads and unfocused eyes. In addition to the usual Home Office crew, Mycroft had requested help from Greg, well, NSY as represented by Greg, and Sherlock. Greg hoped it would be for naught, but Mycroft had been certain the intelligence was solid.

Greg took his muffin to go and walked back toward the car. 11 days until Christmas. Greg had volunteered for duty to let the officers with kids take the 25th off. He would stop by Emily’s to drop off presents for his nephews and have a glass of cider on Christmas Eve, and then he was on from midnight through Boxing Day, which everyone knew was the worst. Everyone had been cooped up with their not-so-loved ones for too long, and the heartwarming Christmas episodes on telly had given way to testosterone fueled sports, with shopping related injuries tossed into the mix. The good thing was, none of these incidents required investigation. The accused and the victim were usually either related, or the incident took place on the local High Street. Either way, eyewitness accounts were plentiful and rendered in the most colorful language possible.

After that, though, he could take some leave. He had actually been thinking of heading to Paris. His second cousin, Yvonne, had taken a job there a few years ago, and he’d been meaning to visit. Would Mycroft go with him? It was a bold ask, a leap if ever he’d taken one, but he knew that Sherlock’s price for assisting tonight was that Mycroft had to take charge of the Holmeses over Christmas. By the 27th, maybe he’d be ready for a change. Mycroft didn’t like noise and crowds, but they could get a hotel in Yvonne’s suburb, which was a bit quieter. Maybe Mycroft could be enticed by one of those restaurants with million bottle wine cellars. Whatever the case, Greg had always wanted to take one of those Catacombs tours.

He tapped gently on the car window. He glanced up before pulling the door handle. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. A man dressed in black in a black watch cap, heading toward Entrance 2. That entrance was supposed to be unused tonight. It also had the most natural cover in the form of a brick wall next to the staircase. The guests had all been routed through the front, covered by Mycroft’s men. The delivery entrance was 4.

Lestrade slid into the car and grabbed his radio. The man was too tall to be Suspect 1.  
“Subject 2 or 3 spotted at Entrance 2.”

“Gregson – “ said Sally.

“Will have to hold it,” said Greg.

They grabbed their gear and slid out of the car, crouching and circling left and right to surround the suspect. They had him subdued in minutes. He was one of the men they were looking for, but he was carrying an iphone and little else. This wasn’t right. Greg glanced at Entrance 3. No one. Then he saw Gregson, their backup.

“Fuck, they’re going in through 4.” Greg started running. It was a full city block, and the service entrance was ajar when he got there. He heard a hiss at his side as he entered.

“Dawdling again I see, Greg.”

“How – “

“The gambit was obvious.”

Greg was relieved for the backup. He would never, though, as long as he lived, get used to being called Greg by Sherlock. He looked through the door. It led to a hall, with the kitchen on the left, a storeroom on the right, and a long corridor leading to the meeting rooms in the center. The kitchen hummed, but mostly with clearing up and dessert prep. 

His heart pounding, Greg checked the storeroom. Then he started down the corridor. He had a gun, but there were so many civilians. He kept it holstered. He was getting closer to the meeting rooms. He could hear the mingled German and English accents of the ministers’ own security details as they chatted. Sherlock’s voice rang out.

“Lestrade, it’s the sous chef!”

Lestrade bolted back to the kitchen. Bloody hell, which one was the sous chef? Lestrade leapt onto the man with the second tallest hat. He saw a silencer. He threw punches randomly, receiving at least two elbow jabs to the face in return, and then drew his gun. A second gun clattered to the ground. Donovan came sweeping through the door with cuffs. 

“Freak called. We will be discussing where he got my number.”

Greg staggered into the corridor and was surrounded by the German and English accents. Mycroft slid out of the door of the conference rooms at the far end of the hallway. Greg briefly looked over Mycroft’s shoulder as he shut the door. Was that bleedin’ BoJo? Mycroft cleared his throat, and the German and British accents oozed down the hall in a clump toward the kitchen. Mycroft looked at him with concern. He handed Greg a handkerchief. 

“Your nose. I have eleven texts from John. I think I have the gist.”

“They’ll stop using the phony kitchen worker bit when it stops working.”

They went into the kitchen. Sally was explaining in a mixture of police jargon and GCSE German that this was New Scotland Yard’s arrest.

“Her accent is horrifying, but they are all taking her meaning,” Mycroft whispered to Greg. “At least two of the German team are, shall we say, intrigued by her flagrant disregard for procedure.”

Greg stifled a laugh, not least because it made his nose bleed more. Mycroft produced an ice pack from somewhere. It was, after all, an industrial kitchen. Greg took it with a smile. He wondered where they stood with this arrest. Sally was already livid that Sherlock had stolen her number from his phone. If he told her they were going to lose the arrest to the Home Office, and that members of the German security services wanted to make eine kleine nachtmusik with her, she would probably finish him off herself. Mycroft turned back to him.

“I am afraid we shall have to take charge of this one. As a penance for allowing an assassin within 20 meters of several Cabinet ministers, the Home Office will do the overnight processing. You’ll think of something to tell Sergeant Donovan.”

Greg headed back down the hall. A couple of men he’d never seen before were spiriting the sous chef away. Sally was deep in conversation in German with a tall, dark-haired bloke. He began to approach her, when his phone beeped. It was a text from Sally.

\- Don’t be a cockblocker. He’s perfectly charming, and I’ve always wanted to see Neuschwanstein.

Greg texted back

\- You have the evening off, apparently, Fraulein.

Watson had arrived. With a fond smile, he handed Sherlock his scarf. John was rewarded with a handful of ginger nuts that Sherlock had apparently stolen from the dessert trays now being carried into the meeting room, along with urns of coffee and tea. Greg smiled unconsciously. The air felt quite a bit lighter now. He felt a hand on his back. 

“We are about to wrap here. If you’ll give me thirty minutes, I can offer you a ride home,” Mycroft said. Greg nodded. He felt a bit dizzy to drive anyway. Maybe that explained the odd fluttering in his stomach as well. Or perhaps not.

As they walked out to the car, Greg felt very tired and at least 10 degrees colder. Still, a good result, anyway. Mycroft seemed pleased. He kept humming something. Greg stumbled a bit, but Mycroft caught him. They got into the car, where the heat was thankfully going full blast. The driver had turned on the sound system, and a choir was singing “Lo, How a Rose Ere Bloomin’,” an uncontroversial standby for this time of year. Greg leaned his head back. His nose had stopped bleeding, although he was trying to hold still to stop it from starting up again. 

“Thank you, Greg,” said Mycroft. “If it hadn’t been for you things could have been much worse. As it is, this is a qualified success.“ His smile had a hint of devilry. “I’m certain Sergeant Donovan would agree.” Greg laughed.

“John would probably say so too.”

“Just so.” Mycroft reached over and put his hand on Greg’s face. “How do you feel?” Greg was suffused with warmth.

“Tired, but alright.” It was now or never. “Mycroft, what are your thoughts on the Catacombs of Paris?”


End file.
